


Come with me now

by OtterMcKilbourne (p_3a)



Series: NaNoWriMo 2015 [9]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Estrangement, Family Issues, Fantasy Racism, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Human Trafficking, Mental Breakdown, Pre-Cataclysm, Slavery, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Violence, Vomiting, post-wrath of the lich king, trouble adjusting to a normal life, varian wrynn has ptsd - post-traumatic stress disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-04 21:49:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5349734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p_3a/pseuds/OtterMcKilbourne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Varian Wrynn sneaks out one night to visit the Brawler’s Guild.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is set immediately after the end of the war in Northrend, and before the events of The Shattering novel.
> 
> It's predicated on a couple of minor retcons. One is that the existence of the Brawler's Guild was backdated to Northrend, rather than its canonical inception during Mists of Pandaria. The other is Anduin's age - I've adjusted it to fit in with my personal headcanons that he's 18 by the time he goes to Pandaria.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Afraid to lose control // and caught up in this world_   
>  _I’ve wasted time, I’ve wasted breath // I think I’ve thought myself to death_

Light, fuck. There was nothing that made Varian feel sicker than the suck-ups he had to spend his days working with.

He wasn’t _actually_ wretching, today, as he stormed out of the six-fucking-thousandth meeting with the House of Nobles he’d had today. He’d done that once since he came back from Northrend - actually thrown up in the corridor outside - and they didn’t like that at all. Light! As if they ever liked _anything_! He wasn’t throwing up today. Not yet. But he could feel the bile rising in his throat. He needed to get -- out. He needed to get out. Of this tiny fucking room, this tiny stupid fucking corridor, this awful fucking city full of people that hated him as much as he hated them.

 _But this is my home_ , a part of him said. He shook his head vigorously, vaguely registering his own footsteps as they fell on the flagstones of the Keep’s corridors somewhere far away. Maybe it was his home. Who even fucking knew, any more. Either way, right now he _really_ needed to get out of it.

This-- yeah, this _sick_ part of him wanted to be back in Northrend. At least there, when he got like this, he could take it out on the Scourge. At least there he’d be close to Bolvar. Or whatever was left of him. His breath hitched in his throat and he had to stop walking, just to lean against the wall for a moment, just to breathe, just to-- stop, for a moment. He didn’t have Bolvar. Bolvar was in Northrend, sat on his own wretched throne, just like Arthas had before him, and _Arthas_ was dead now, too, no hope of ever coming back, and that meant there was no hope for Bolvar either, and-- Light, both of them had been so _beautiful_ , and now that Fel-blasted land had taken them both forever--

His fist struck out wildly; pounded into the wall, hard enough that it might’ve seemed like he was trying to break out of the Keep. Maybe he was. He saw a servant cower back, and that little part of him cringed and pointed out Anduin would hear of this. But he didn’t care. He couldn’t. There was only so much room in his heart, and all of it was taken up with-- _this_. This ugly fucking mess.

His breath trembled through his chest. He needed-- he needed a drink. Fuck. That was the only way he’d get some peace, these days. Just a quick drink, no one needed to know, no one could tell the fucking difference _anyway_ \--  
\--but that was another thing Anduin didn’t like, wasn’t it? He took another deep, shaking breath, and tried to hold the boy’s face in mind. He was almost sixteen now. Varian had missed so much of him growing up. And where previously his expression had lit up at the sight of his father, now Varian would watch his shoulders tense, his lips firm up - bracing himself for something. And Varian hated nothing more in the _world_ than the reflection he saw of himself in those precious blue eyes.

Fine. No drink tonight.

But then what?

His thoughts turned again to Northrend. There’d been something else that had kept his attention away from his grief than the Scourge. Varian couldn’t sugar-coat it, even now. The war with the Scourge had been awful. He wasn’t even sure he could kid himself into thinking he’d go back there if he had a choice, not even as he slowly stood his weight up off the wall he’d been leaning on and stumbled back towards his quarters as if he’d already had what Anduin would flatly term as “too much”.

No. It wasn’t the Scourge that kept his thoughts returning to Northrend. It wasn’t even Bolvar and Arthas - Light, he knew more than most the bitter relief that could be found in grief, but this wasn’t that. No. No. He stopped, again, cupping his forehead in one hand and trying to squeeze the light out of his eyes. It was Garrosh Hellscream.

The orc had been a constant thorn in his side, a constant irritation distracting him from the real fight - a welcome one. In all honesty. But an irritation, nonetheless. He infuriated Varian in ways the King couldn’t even start to describe. They’d fought, once, in the Purple Parlour, and-- Gods, Jaina had been _pissed_ , but it’d been worth it. Varian hadn’t been able to stop grinning afterwards. He didn’t think he’d felt so alive in years.

Because that’s what that continent did to you. It sucked the life out of you. And somehow, by some dumb coincidence, or some Light-given miracle, Garrosh Hellscream - of _all people_ , the son of the man who had sacked Varian’s childhood home to begin with - had breathed some of that life back into him.

Just as he was beginning to feel a little clearer about things, his chest seized again. Because-- no. That was impossible. Garrosh was an _orc_. He felt nothing but loathing for their kind; they’d destroyed his city, decades ago, and made no amends since then. Even Thrall - the one Jaina liked so much; _trusted_ , even - had allowed to operate under his tusks the very alchemists who had engineered the tragedy that was the Wrathgate. Saurfang the Younger lost or not, it was still on the Horde’s collective heads. And Garrosh was a staunch member of that Horde - making his head among the number.

Varian found himself at the bottom of the staircase to his chambers. _Light_ , he hated this staircase. The tiny stairs had seemed like such a good idea when he’d planned the building of the Keep, good for the tiny feet they’d have around, the litter of children that everyone and their damned aunts had planned for him and his wife-to-be - but there’d only ever been one child, and he was grown now, and the stairs caught Varian’s toes every two steps and reminded him of everything he was supposed to be and wasn’t. After the third time he tripped up completely, wrist twisted under his grip on the handrail and knees only saved from skinning by the armour he wore everywhere, he was ready to give up and break down there in the corridor.

He realised, after a moment, that someone was calling his name. He looked up - and didn’t think he’d ever been so grateful to see Valeera Sanguinar, looking down at him from the top of the stairs like she’d been trying to get his attention for a little while now.

“I’d ask you if you’re okay, but that’s pretty obviously not the case.” She gave a frank grimace. There was no fake sympathy in her tone or her gaze, and no judgement either. Varian appreciated that.  
He forced himself to stand, hauling himself up with both fists gripped around the handrail. Though she was poised to dash down the stairs if he reached out for her assistance, she didn’t rush to help him. He appreciated that, too.  
“I take it the meeting didn’t go well, then?” she said, tipping her head and stepping aside so she could fall in beside her King as he made his slow way up the corridor.  
“It went well.” He heaved a sigh. “But the sugar-coating didn’t agree with my stomach.”  
She laughed, tucking her hands behind her head. “Oh, I know all _about_ that one. I don’t think it agrees much with mine, either. I don’t know how you deal with it every day.”  
“I was born to it.” But he wasn’t raised to it, he thought, but didn’t say aloud. Not really. He was raised to fight orcs.  
“That doesn’t make it easy,” Valeera posed, green eyes glancing to the ceiling. “But hey, it sounds like you need a bit of a break.”  
“How could you tell?” Varian rubbed at his face, and almost lost his balance. Valeera made a small noise of surprise, but - again - didn’t scramble to help. Which Varian was honestly glad for. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be touched right now.  
“It’s kind of obvious,” she said, and Varian couldn’t argue. “But anyway, I think I spotted something you might like.”  
“Yeah?”  
“Some of the guys at work,” she said, tone hushed, as tones often were when referring to the SI:7 agents she’d been assisting by way of a day job, “have been investigating this underground fighting ring. It’s all very illegal, obviously, but so far they haven’t found any evidence of trafficking or slavery.”

She glanced down the corridor; probably the same nervous glance Varian was about to make, for prying Princely ears. Varian loved Anduin, but he was sometimes a bit too nosy for his own good. Apparently satisfied, though, Valeera continued: “I was thinking of going down and checking it out myself, just to see if their initial reports are correct. We’ve got a special knack for figuring out when there’s that sort of thing going on, obviously.”  
“Ha. Yeah. One of the few good things we got left with.”  
“But it looks like you need the work more, so I thought I’d pass the tip on.” She smiled, and offered him a little piece of folded parchment. “Yeah?”

He took the parchment. He unfolded it, clumsy, fearful he’d rip it with his shaking hands. He didn’t. It showed a map of the Deeprun Tram, with a set of instructions Varian could read if he squinted.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah.”

Valeera smiled. “Let me know what you find and I’ll pass it along. As far as they need to know, it came from me. I trust you.”  
Her honest statement soaked into Varian’s soul, calming his aching heart just a little. “Thank you, Valeera,” he said, folding the parchment up again and tucking it away. “Really.”  
“Don’t mention it,” she said, her vivid grin returning. “See you tomorrow morning!”

And then she was gone, and Varian was alone again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I was born without this fear // Now only this seems clear  
>  I need to move, I need to fight // I need to lose myself tonight_

It was easier to find than he thought it should have been.

This place was meant to be secret. But once you spotted the entrance, it was really, really obvious. He listened to ensure there were no trams incoming, then hopped down into the pit they ran through, dashed across, and into the tunnel. And that was it.

Light, this place was the dumbest thing anyone had planned, ever. It was no wonder SI:7 had found this place so soon.

According to what was written on the map Valeera had given him, the place had only just been established. It was still setting up, really. But it was already drawing crowds, and the main concern SI:7 had right now was actually that the infrastructure of the place wouldn’t be able to cope with the number of people already attending the club at night. Still, even though Varian recognised the blatant excuse to get him out of the Keep for what it was, Valeera had a point about the trafficking. He needed to check. If he found a single damn slave, he was pulling off his mask and shutting this place down permanently.

Still. Getting in past the bouncers was easy enough; a simple nod in their direction and a show he wasn’t carrying excessive weaponry or - he noted on the rules for the place posted clear on the wall - illicit trade goods, and they waved him through. He hadn’t brought Shalamayne, obviously. But he’d risked the Orcish blades he used to use in the arenas on Kalimdor. Just in case.

It was, as noted on the annotated map (he’d left it in his office) already pretty busy. He’d shown up after dinnertime, so most people had finished work and put the kids to bed. It was prime illicit-dealings time. He was about a head taller than most people, so, glad he’d chosen to wear a face-mask as well as restyling his hair and wearing the most nondescript outfit he could get his hands on, he waded his way through the crowd to where various people were already queueing up to get at each other in the fighting pit.

Suddenly, someone grabbed his arm. He spun to face them. It was a mousy-faced Dwarven woman. “You here to fight?” she asked, eyeing him up and down.

“Yes,” Varian heard himself say, before he’d even processed the question.

Well.

Shit. That’d just have to be that, then. He’d fight one match, then leave. No big deal.

“Registration’s this way,” she grunted, and pointed him in the right direction. So he moved over there, finding it surprisingly easy to get through the increasingly packed crowds.

Varian didn’t know that underground brawling rings had secretaries, but then, Rehgar had always handled all this stuff before. The pointy little man took down Varian’s mumbled pseudonym, then eyed him up and down over the little desk, asking if he’d had any fighting experience before.

“Uh, yeah,” he said, wetting his lips under his mask as he considered how much to give away. Then, once again, found himself saying far more than he wanted to: “I’m a damn retired champion of the Crimson Ring, I know what this is about.”

After those words left his mouth, he expected the secretary to recoil in surprise, or even to shout out Varian’s real name and have the whole charade undone. But he nodded, and wrote it down. “How do you feel about being up first?”  
“What?” Varian thought he’d misheard.  
“Our original pick was a no-show, so how you feel about breaking another newbie in?”  
“Uh,” he blinked at the little secretary, who was wetting the tip of his quill and looking at Varian expectantly. “Sure.”  
“Great.” He gave a customer-service smile and scribbled a few things down, then took out a clunky Gnomish-built radio and muttered into it in Gnomish far too rapid for Varian to understand.

The original dwarf bouncer grabbed his arm again and dragged him determinedly through the crowds. He barely understood what was going on; but his hands were steady. He could feel the blades buzzing at his sides; at the insistence of what appeared to be a _crew_ , he took them out of their sheathes and allowed blunters to be fitted over the blade to prevent their blows from being lethal. He swished them through the air idly, ensuring it didn’t affect their balance much, and adjusting his swings for what they did change. Then someone tied a bandana around his head, and someone else straightened his armour so it looked neater; and then the gate was opened, and…

...then he was on the arena floor. Walking himself out. No armed guards shoving him past the gates, this time. Just him, and what felt like the stillest, quietest, and most tranquil moment he’d had since he arrived home a month ago. No afternoon at the Cathedral, no walk in the park with his son could compare.

Words he’d spoken to his son before Northrend, just after Bolvar’s boat had left, sprung to his mind:  
 _It’s true that I feel most alive in the midst of battle. Maybe that means there’s something wrong with me._

But there was no time for that. His opponent was on the floor; the gnome who ran the joint shouted the time limit, and then a whistle was blown.

He was off.

And then he’d won the fight.

He found his right arm being raised high as the dazed competitor he’d struck down was dragged from the arena. Lo’gosh-- _Varian’s_ pseudonym was cried out on the tinny little loudspeakers as the victor, and then suddenly there was another opponent in front of him, and the whistle peeped again.

It was glorious.

And he felt sick.

Fight after fight went by; mismatched adventurer after up-and-coming peasant after bizarre creature fell unconscious beneath Varian’s blunted swords. He watched each competitor as they entered the ring closely; only the crocolisk (the irony made him grin; maybe he should’ve introduced himself as Crocbait, given the audience a laugh too) seemed to be forced there. So he was doing the job he came here for, too. Really.

As the matches went by, his victories came more easily, and he should’ve known something was the matter. He’d make a single, decisive strike, and his opponent would fall; people were betting, he could hear them, on how long his streak would last for. Between matches, he was ushered out of the arena and the blunting strips on his weapons replaced, the bandana around his head taken away and a dry one put in its place, a mist of water sprayed at his face to keep him from overheating. And then he’d be in for the next one, and they’d fall just as quickly.

He could’ve been there for minutes. Hours. He didn’t know. Maybe he’d leave and the sun would be well above the horizon and he’d have to sneak back through his own city, the shame on his face plain for everyone to see in the light of day. Cause that was what he’d always said, wasn’t it? He’d never fight for entertainment. Just to protect Valeera and Broll - and later, once he remembered the boy  _existed_ , to protect Anduin. But here he fucking was. Playing to the crowd like the worst of them.

He walked back down into the pit for the next fight.

The thing that called him out of it wasn’t any particular opponent of his, or even the way people had started to chant his pseudonym like it was a battle-cry. It wasn’t the way his senses had sharpened, and he suddenly felt aware of every individual in the crowd, every tram that rumbled past, every scrap of paper on the floor and every mechanical gate waiting to open with a flood of fire if they took too long on a fight. It wasn’t any of that shit. Maybe it should’ve been. No. It was a single face in the crowd that he caught, between matches, that made him stop and think.

That wasn’t…

...Rell Nightwind, was it?

His heart caught in his throat, and he stared at the night elf. Maybe-- maybe it wasn’t. But shit, maybe it was. Maybe he’d recognise his Light-blinded _boss_. Y’know, the head damn spy, maybe he’d be able to spot the man he worked for.

Varian suddenly stood up, muttering his apologies and off-handedly telling them to donate his winnings to the orphanage, and left.

He knew there were ramps out from the furrow the trams ran through. He knew he should’ve looked both ways before crossing it. But he just ran across, jumped, gripped the edge with both hands, and vaulted himself up.

Then he kept running.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I stood at this door before, I'm told //_   
>  _But part of me knows that I'm growing too old_

He didn’t stop until he’d reached the servants’ entrance for the Keep. He would’ve gone straight upstairs, but there was someone waiting for him.

It was Valeera, and she looked… sheepish.

Light blind him…

“What’d you find?” she asked, hopping down from the stone bannister she’d perched herself on.  
“Nothing untoward.” He ran his hand over his face; realised he still had the bandana on, then tore it off. “What about you? You don’t look like you’re waiting here just to welcome me home.”  
“Uh… no.” Valeera shrugged apologetically. “I’m really sorry, Lo’gosh. He must’ve overheard us talking earlier, and--”  
Varian’s heart plummeted. “Where is he?”  
“Waiting for you at the top of the servants’ stairs. I snuck down to give you a chance to go through the other entrance.”

Varian looked at her, then up the staircase. “Is there blood on my face?”  
“A little, yes.” Valeera grimaced. “Looks like scuffs, though. Not sure it’ll come off.”  
Varian sighed harshly. “Fine.” Then looked his adoptive niece in the eye. “Thank you. For tonight. And for warning me. I think I’m going to get it over with now. No use to delaying it til the morning when I’ll just be tired.”

And, slower, he began to ascend the servant’s steps back to the familiar areas of Stormwind Keep.

Anduin was, indeed, waiting up for him. And he didn’t look happy at all.

He was wearing a cloak with the hood up, but his blond hair was dishevelled, and his still-young face was marked with deep bags under his eyes which showed how long he’d been waiting up. His candle was almost burned out. But his sharp gaze caught Varian’s as he stepped into the centre of the corridor into the main Keep, pushing his hood down and holding the lantern out.

“Father,” he said simply, “where were you?”  
“Undercover work, son.” Varian rubbed self-consciously at the scrape Valeera had pointed out on his cheek. Then immediately regretted it. Anduin’s gaze snapped right to it, and the hardness in his eyes set further into his manner.  
“Undercover work that I didn’t know about? As Prince?”  
“...yes, son.” Varian drew himself up. “It’s past your bedtime.”  
“Father! Light! I’m not a little child any more!” His hand clenched tighter around the handhold for the lantern. “You were out fighting, weren’t you? We’re supposed to be upholding a ceasefire in the wake of the Northrend war!”  
“I wasn’t fighting the Horde!” he snapped, willing his tone to soften even as his words burst from his throat. His son recoiled, and Varian couldn’t do anything about it. “It doesn’t matter, alright? Let’s just go to bed.”

But even before he was done talking, he noticed something was wrong. Anduin was… shaking..? He’d turned his face away, and--

Tears. There were tears on his face. Varian’s heart broke, and he reached out for his son... only for Anduin to pull away. “No, Anduin, I--”  
“You’re right,” Anduin said, his voice high-pitched and small. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not like I’m going to be King one day or anything.”  
“Anduin, that’s not what I meant--”

He expected his son to snap back, but nothing came. He just stood there, huddling the lantern close to his chest, and cried. And Varian realised what a horrible, monstrous mistake he’d made. He’d assumed Anduin was being cold - that the boy hated him, and wanted to see him gone. But it wasn’t that complicated, was it? He’d been trying to save face. Trying to save his father, the one that should’ve been looking after _him_ , from...

“You changed since you got back from Northrend,” Anduin finally continued, sniffing and wiping at his face. “Bolvar was gone, and then you left again, and you’d only been _back_ a few months to start with, and now you’re-- different. Everything’s different. Unless it’s--” a fresh crop of tears spilled down his cheeks, “unless it’s something wrong with _me_. And now I guess you’re sneaking out at night to fight people, too.” He sniffed, and drew himself up, but didn’t make eye contact. “It’s fine. That’s fine. I’ll see you tomorrow, Father.”  
“Anduin, wait--”

But he was gone, and he’d left Varian stood on his own in the silent stone corridor, shaking faintly.

He went back to his room. He changed out of his clothes. He washed his face. He applied salve to the injuries. He got into bed.

And he lay in bed, staring at the canopy of the four-poster in the dark, wondering how it came to be that he should be such a monster that only found peace during war. That he and his son were so far from one another in so many ways, when they’d always been so close in years gone by. Whether it had really been worth it not to drink tonight, if all it meant was this, in the end.

He reached over to the bedside cabinet. And he only truly fell asleep after at least one of the beer bottles he kept in there had been emptied.

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to end this fic setting them up for their relationship the way it is at the beginning of the official Warcraft novel _The Shattering: Prelude to the Cataclysm_ , by Christie Golden. So if you want a continuation (and reconciliation between father and son), then _The Shattering_ should be compatible with this fic in that sense! :)


End file.
